Cause You're Okay!
by kittymchale
Summary: Artie's mom would never forgive herself, living with the guilt for the rest of her seemingly too long of a life.


**Welp.**

"Mommy," The whimpering whines omitted from Artie's room, the little 8-year old laying helplessly on his bed, hot tears streaming down his face. There was no way he could be bored, his room filled to the absolute max with gifts he was showered with from his family. Especially from his guilt-stricken mother, padding down the hallway to go back to his room. She could feel her teeth biting down harder on her lip, blinking to keep from crying again. Flattening the bandage on her forehead, the one thing she had gotten out with, she clicks open Artie's door, peeking her head in.

His face was completely pale besides the deep purple bags under his eyes and the bright red gash behind his ear, stitched carefully with black thread. His lips were dry and cracked, eyes bloodshot from all of the crying. Mrs. Abrams walked over to him, placing her hand gently on his forehead. Artie sniffled up at her, his breaths unsteady and heartbreaking, "What's wrong, baby?" She spoke quietly, wiping her own eyes. He holds out his thin arms, trying to pull his mother in. She saw him blink, a few more tears breaking free and trailing down his colorless cheeks, "I can't touch your back, Art," She said, her voice almost low enough to be a whisper. "Not yet," Leaving a soft kiss on his forehead, she sat on the side of the bed next to him. "We have to let your stitches heal," Artie reached up a small hand to his mother's face, wiping away her tears.

"Don't cry," He whined, his voice crackled and broken. Artie had always been a tiny child, shorter and thinner than the rest of the kids in his class. Ripping away his ability to go play on the swings with his sister (who had picked up on jokingly calling him "Mulan" because of his pale face. Artie thought it was quite funny) made him look even tinier, easily being consumed by the bed. Artie certainly felt tiny, stuck in his room to heal most of the day. Four times a week, a young, slim woman with flaming red hair would visit the house, teaching Mrs. Abrams how to do the leg stretches her son required to prevent anything happening to his muscles. It made the little boy feel like a piece of meat, anyone being able to manipulate him. He couldn't kick back or shake them off, frequently smacking his legs around to try and get them to 'wake up'. They never did.

Artie's mom was consumed with guilt, tearing down any kind of religious paraphenalia they had in the house. She gave up on God, horrified that it wasn't her. Artie had his whole life ahead of him. He had more digging around in the mud, picking up dead snakes and throwing them at his sister, Laura. He had more baseball tossing with his father to do, his dad's wide grin and bellowing laugh filling the yard. Artie still had big shoes to fill and huge dreams to reach up and catch for himself. He didn't need his dreams too high to reach without his tip toes. He couldn't stand up on them anymore.

She used to pray every night, counting all her blessings. After the accident, she was too tired to care anymore. Her belief was gone, floating up and disappearing like way too many other things in her life and her little boy's.

Mr. Abrams worried for her, clutching her close to him when she would break down, screaming at him about how this wasn't fair and that it should have been her. All she wanted to do was turn back time, never dragging Artie to her book club that fateful Thursday night.

It was sticky and hot that night, Artie swinging his feet and complaining that he wanted to 'go back and play tag with Noah'. If she knew what was going to happen, she would have taken him back. If it saved Artie from a lifetime of pain, she would have never pulled him away because the other kid's dog was annoying her. Mrs. Abrams decided to leave early, grabbing Artie's tiny hand and practically having to drag him away from the playground.

Deep down, she swore it was her fault, not looking to the side and watching out for restless cars trying to beat the mocking yellow light hanging down from the power line. Out of all the cars on the busy road, it just so happened that it was the Abrams's car that had to be hit that day. That wasn't just bad luck to her. For her, it happened for a reason. Someone out there wanted her to live with the guilt every day for the rest of her life.

Artie didn't blame his mom. He didn't know why it happened. He just knew it did. All he knew was that he couldn't take the pain ripping his body apart, panicking every so often because he couldn't move his lower half. He would cry and scream, overcome with fear about how he couldn't move. Mrs. Abrams would usually lose it those nights, seeing her baby so distressed. Artie's screeches would fill the house, Laura usually becoming annoyed and going into her room. Artie's dad had never seen anyone cry that hard before, his son breathing so quickly and shallowly he would sometimes lose consciousness.

Mrs. Abrams would always wish that it was her in the wheelchair, never able to move her legs again. She would constantly beg and plead for the world to go into some kind of parallel universe, stitching the balance of itself once again. This would never happen and she knew it. It didn't keep her from wishing.

"Don't cry, mommy," Artie repeated, brushing her hair out of her face, furrowing his eyebrows, "I'm happy you can walk still!" He gives her a tired, toothy grin, still sniffling a bit. "I don't care if I can't 'cause you're okay!" He keeps smiling up at her as she gives him a tiny watery one.

"I gotta go make dinner, 'kay, Art?" She leaves, closing the door behind her before he can respond, breaking down again.

Artie sat still in his room, looking ahead at the door. The wheels in his little brain didn't move that day, never really getting why his mom got so upset.

9 years later, Artie was still happy that his mom could still walk, not caring that it was him.


End file.
